Our Revenge Policy
by wilfred the pickle
Summary: Or, five things that could have, but never did, happen to Spencer Reid.


**i. **

He was far too young, and far too trusting.

Diana sits by the fireplace, her husband on the other side of the room. In the center, the police officers have gathered into their own private little circle, speaking in hushed tones and sparing glances at their victim's mother. William can only make out small parts of the conversation, but there's one name in it he can't miss - Gary Michaels.

After a few minutes of absolute silence, apart from their hushed whispers and Diana's occasional whimpering, all but two of the officers file out of their living room. William braces his hands on his thighs and stands up to meet them.

"Yes?" he says, his voice hollow and empty.

The two cops look at each other awkwardly. "We'd like to take a look into Spencer's bedroom," the taller one offers gently.

Across the room, Diana sits up straighter as her eyes mist over. "Not while my son is still in there," she says, almost dreamily. "He's in there, reading. Such a bright child, my baby is. Did you know he can read at a twelfth-grade level? He's got such a bright future in front of him."

William wonders if Diana will ever remember again that her son is dead.

**ii.**

It's a cold night - a rarity in Vegas, Spencer thinks. He shivers, wrapping the one blanket he owns around him. Hopefully he can sleep under the bridge tonight without getting caught like the last time he attempted to.

He wonders how his mother is doing without him. Terribly, he supposes - she was doing poorly enough the last time that he saw her (three months, two days, four hours, two minutes and thirty-one seconds ago to be exact) that she thought he was a government spy and locked the doors.

He wishes his mother would let him back in the house.

He tenses up as a short man begins to approach him. Inhaling sharply, he presses himself into the dark corners of the underside of the bridge, tensing further as the man steps even closer.

"Relax, kid," the man laughs. "You look cold, out here all alone. How about I take you someplace real nice tonight?"

He shimmies out somewhat from his hiding spot, revealing just the barest hint of his face. "I'm thirteen," he says, because _that _sure sounds like something he's heard before, and it has never ended well.

"We'll pay real good money for someone like you," the guy says in the same slimy tone, and hands Spencer a business card. It looks suspiciously like an ad for a strip club (plenty of _them _in Vegas) but to a homeless thirteen year-old, money is money.

He nods once, and takes the card from the man's grasp. "I'll consider it."

The man grins sleazily, giving Spencer a wave and beginning to turn his back. "You know where to find me."

Spencer sighs, rolling onto his back and examining the card in the moonlight. To his knowledge, it's legit - he remembers the name from one of his father's many excursions to the more shadier parts of Vegas.

Hopefully, his father had stopped frequenting there by now, because Spencer's already decided he'll take the offer.

**iii.**

The dog bites are finally beginning to heal up.

Not all the scars from the Hankel incident are fading, though. He still has nightmares of the eyes, glaring at him from the dark, and seeing JJ being tortured through a computer screen. The rest of the team has them as well; mandatory group therapy is a thoroughly interesting exercise. Even more interesting when it's run by Gideon, who has managed to become even more broken. Before all this happened, Reid would have thought that impossible. Now, he's seen it in himself.

Their new media liaison is nice. Good at his job, too. Quiet, but carries a distinctive air of authority. A little unapproachable, but apparently that's a requirement for the job.

Slowly, Reid is healing. The team is healing. Hotch comes out of his office to talk to them, sometimes. Morgan is spending less and less time at Quantico's gym. Garcia's gone back to wearing cute headbands with cat ears on them, and bright flashy outfits.

They've told him time and time again that it wasn't his fault, but he doesn't think he'll start believing them any time soon. He'll always have to live with the guilt - the guilt of having a teammate's blood on his hands, the guilt of single-handedly tearing his team apart, the guilt of having the hope to live a somewhat normal existence again.

But still, when he sees those dog bites beginning to heal, he feels a mixed sense of relief and anger. Relief, because he's finally able to do his job - help people - as normal. Anger, because he should have been the one in the shed those two days, and now, the one lying six feet underground in a coffin due to his mistake.

**iv.**

The trial was over far too quickly for Spencer's liking.

William Reid had the audacity to start crying as soon as he'd received his sentence. Spencer can remember the way he'd flailed, trying to twist his way out of his guard's tight restraints, begging his son to _tell them the truth, Spencer! You know I didn't do this!_

It's times like these that he's glad to be blessed with an eidetic memory.

He only visits once after his father is sent to prison. Neither of them say anything for a long time; Spencer just sits there with an expectant, almost _triumphant _smirk, daring his father to try proclaim his innocence.

Finally, William rises to the bait. "You know I didn't kill Riley," he pleads, voice cracking.

"I know you did," Spencer says simply. "And there's an enormous amount of evidence to back it up, too."

"Then someone planted it!" William exclaims, chained fists clenched tightly together. "Please, Spencer - don't do this to me. Don't ignore the truth just because I made a mistake."

"Why do you think I came here, _Dad?" _Spencer asks, voice mocking.

William pauses. "I don't know," he says in defeat, swallowing.

Spencer just smiles and leans forward, his face as close to the glass as he can get it. "Because I want to see your face when I walk out of here a free man, and you're stuck in here, at a dead-end with no way out, for the rest of your life. See how that feels?"

**v.**

There's something different about Reid when he walks into the bullpen today, Morgan notices. He looks better than he has in months. In fact, he looks the best he ever has since Prentiss died. Morgan chokes down the bitter feelings regarding that particular subject and instead approaches Reid in the kitchen.

"Hey, Pretty Boy," he says, ruffling the younger agent's hair fondly. _Just like the good ol' days, _he thinks bitterly.

"Hi, Morgan." Reid gives him a fleeting smile. To Morgan's ear, he sounds a little bit spacey, like he's not quite paying full attention to what his co-worker is saying. Then again, he does usually pour all his attention into making coffee, so Morgan can probably cut him some slack for that one.

"Listen, kid, I need some help with something," he begins tentatively.

"Sure," Reid says, still in that same distracted tone. Morgan would have preferred Reid's usual undivided attention, but he'll work with what he's given.

"I've been working on a secret project," he starts to explain, keeping his voice low even though there's nobody around. Who knows what the FBI's highly advanced security systems could pick up on?

"What kind of _secret project_?" Reid asks with childlike curiosity, almost…_too _childlike. Morgan manages to keep the frown of his face as he answers.

"Ian Doyle's location," he admits, waiting for Reid's inevitably shocked reaction. Surprisingly, Reid's reaction is not one of shock, but of mirth - he laughs softly, like he's in on some inside joke that nobody bothered to tell him about.

"We don't have to keep looking for Ian Doyle anymore, Derek," he says, turning around and beginning to fix himself what looks like very, _very _strong coffee. Morgan is about to pull the younger man back around to face him and demand what's so funny, what joke he's missing out on, when he notices a dark red stain on the back of Reid's neck, all too similar to the ones they examine for a living.

"Reid…is that _blood_?" he breathes, eyes widening as Reid turns around slowly.

"I took care of it, Derek," he says. "I took care of it _all_."

The smile on his face is one of the most serene Morgan has ever seen.

**o.**

_the world i'd dreamed of was pretty, so pretty_

_and full of nothing but kind people_

**o o o**

**I've been having kind a rough time lately, which is why updates have been lacking. February should change all that. As always, reviews and feedback are always greatly appreciated. **

**(lyrics &amp; fic title are from **_**our revenge policy **_**by kemu voxx)**

**Thank you for reading! C:**


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